Every bone feels like it's breaking at once.
My throat is raw from screaming and
my eyes are sore from the tears.

These are the signs of someone
who is weak beyond measure.

Beaten into believing that nobody
will ever love me, especially not an
alcoholic father or a sadistic mother.

Told I will never amount to anything
more than a pathetic waste of space,
that I'm lucky to even have two parents,
though they aren't as fortunate to have me.

A bruise from you turned into a nasty
play in soccer, scratches on my arms were
that **** girl that didn't clip her nails.

But nobody asked about how I ached
every time I took a breath, when last
night came rushing back but I couldn't
say anything because my lips were
locked together with fear.

It's okay though, I'm better now.
*Right?

It's kind of funny.**
I think of myself as a very open person,
yet I can't remember the last time I let
someone in. I always think I'm going to
be strong enough, but my heart gets in
the way of my words--or maybe it's my
mind. Because there's never a right time to
tell someone you're breaking down,
there's not a perfect moment to explain
how you hate yourself and everyone
around you. Because when someone's
happy, it would be cruel to take that
away from them--you couldn't possibly
be so selfish when you know the
struggle for the smile they're wearing.
But when the same person is sad,
it's not your place to bring yet another
problem into their life; you have no right.

So when will you ever find that millisecond
to say that you need help--will you ever?
Will you just breakdown in between bites
of cereal on a Wednesday morning?
Or will the truth spill out during the ten
minute drive to the grocery store?
You try so hard to be strong and happy
because nobody has time to fix you, so
you learn to fix yourself. And maybe you
don't ever really get it; maybe you'll never
love the shape of your nose or the extra fat
on your arms. But, despite all of this, you'll
learn to love every happy person you meet--
be it with tears in your eyes sometimes.

You can't fix yourself because we aren't
intended to become something different.

You improve yourself, you
continue on, and you learn.

Everyday isn't going to be a good day,
but it is someone else's best day--
and isn't that something to celebrate?

beep*                    beep          beep

The constant hum assures us you're alive,
yet is a reminder of how close you are to
vanishing before our eyes; a steady sequence
to make sure we realize how fragile we all are.

I used to wonder why people
hated the hospital; I thought it
was a place for life and healing.
I now know it is an unwanted
ending in an all too familiar
place for far too many. A young
man's next breath is placed in
the hands of a man who is
performing from memory and
who is thinking about the next
life he has to save. Nurse's
faces transform from animated to
burdened as the days progress,
and their eyes have a sadness to
them when they greet you by name.
The air lingers in your chest long
after you leave; it's heavier than it
should be, weighed down with
whispers, tears, and last breaths.

Is it prolonging life or suffering?

Are we saving her or us?

Do we come here to live or to die?

I'm not going to fall apart.

There isn't going to be a boy
that comes along and stitches me
back together.
He isn't going to make a puzzle
out of me and fill in the missing
places with parts of his heart.

There won't be a best friend that
will make sure I'm okay every
minute of the day.
She won't read my mind and
know that I'm lying when I tell
her I'm just tired.

I have to keep myself together,
because I'm the only one that knows
where every piece of me goes.

I have to be okay, because that's
what everybody needs right now.

I am fine, and I will never be broken.
I will be strong enough to stay in
one piece, or I will die trying.

I honestly don't know
how much longer
I can keep
pretending

that I am strong enough

that I  care enough

that I am human.

I told him I felt lost and so
he handed me a map
and told me to drive
wherever my heart leads me.

His face didn't
show an ounce of surprise
when I pulled up to his
driveway.

Her hands glide across
her own collarbone,
hoping she'll find that
your fingers still remain.
But no trace is left
from that night she
will forever remember,
and the night that you
drink to forget.

The irony of burying
your best friend's
skeleton underneath
a mound of dirt
and calling it respect.

The reality of letting
go of the one person
who ever meant
anything to you
and calling it love.

The pain of reliving
and criticizing
every thing that
you've ever done
and calling it the past.